


The Louvre Palace, 8 March 1636

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [19]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Embedded Images, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Some Historical Fudging, Treville Kicks Ass, War, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 21:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16103771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: Treville,For the last time – no. Stop asking.LouisTreville takes a careful breath, a deliberate moistening of his lower lip, before looking up and asking the servant: “And where is the King currently?”“Monsieur, he…” the man trails into silence.*Another installment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	The Louvre Palace, 8 March 1636

**Author's Note:**

> Embedded letter images will have a text version in the end notes.

  
  


Treville takes a careful breath, a deliberate moistening of his lower lip, before looking up and asking the servant: “And where is the King currently?”

“Monsieur, he…” the man trails into silence. Treville carries himself at all times like a man with a sword in his belt, no matter the setting or occasion. The fact that he is not, currently, wearing one, makes no difference to the impression that he could kill him in several different ways, should he so choose. Treville slowly closes the note into his right fist, his calm, blue eyes never leaving his.

He swallows. half-ducks his head. “The King expressly wishes no interruption…”

The Minister barely moves, barely blinks.

He surrenders. “Minister, the King is currently waited upon by the Marquis de Cinq-Mars.”

“I see,” he remarks. “Please convey me to the King with all speed.” And then he smiles, and it’s very nearly a nice smile.

The servant swallows again on a twist of his mouth and turns, setting a brisk pace back the way he’d come.

Behind the man’s back, Treville allows himself the luxury of, if not a full scowl, something a fraction further south than neutral. If the King sought to hide behind his latest sycophant then he, Treville, would ensure that this, somehow, worked to his advantage. He has several minutes in which to come up with a plan and, he reminds himself, has done more with less in the past. There’s no need to resign himself to–

“Minister Treville, Your Majesty.”

The servant beats the hastiest of retreats, presumably hoping that the King will forget who actually brought him this unwelcome news if he does it all quickly, face tucked down.

The King is lounging back in the broad, padded chair that dominates this rather more cosy of his sitting rooms. In his lap are the spotless slippers of his latest favourite who blinks slow, auburn lashes at Treville as he makes his usual efficient obeisance – too much the old soldier to change now, and suspecting that the King secretly enjoys this character he dons, like a mask made of his own history.

Louis is too languid to show much more than a petulant tightening of the eyes and a quick, fake smile at his courtesy. “Treville? I take it this is about the funds for the cadets?” And he’s pushing that airy tremor of a laugh into his voice. “I _thought_ I made myself perfectly clear.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty, and, hearing that you were nearby, I decided to take this opportunity to offer my resignation in person ahead of sending it to you formally and in writing.”

“What?” The King sits up at this, sweeping the Marquis’s feet from him, to the astonished, breathy tut of the latter. “Treville, what is this?”

“Your Majesty engaged me to win this war. I cannot do so without the means to my hand. As I am unable to fulfill my primary duty, I must, in all conscience, leave my post.” He places his hand on his chest, makes another bow – slightly lower, slightly slower than the earlier one – and turns as if to leave.

“Wait! Treville, stop!” He counts to two and turns, wishing he had the means to play some subtle emotions on his face – pleasant concern and a little hurt, maybe – but he has never been made this way, and this bare five months have not gifted him the means to be an actor like those courtiers born and raised to it. Besides, if the King prizes his straightforward, military bluffness, let him be bluff, face as impassive as it’s ever been when resisting a superior officer.

“You can’t do this!”

“Your Majesty,” he explains, “I have no choice. Not with things as they stand.”

Louis rises to his feet. “So. So why the Musketeers? And why – damn it, you’re asking for _years_ of training, bed, and board for… for _children_.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Why not recruit grown men? The other regiments do. Why not take some from the Red Guard?”

He decides to answer the second question first. “Sire, Paris still needs guarding.”

“True, true.” He attempts a sage air.

“And those other regiments, Sire, taking grown men,” taking anyone who can stand upright, brawlers and thieves and all, “are also required at the front, but Musketeers are a special case.”

“Why?”

He breathes deeply. “Each of the King’s Musketeers must needs be worth more than any common soldier, Your Majesty. To carry _your_ title, they must be exceptional. All our best are at the front,” not true, one sits wasting his God-given talents in a monastery, but he cannot let his fists clench over that, “and we must have the training of them from as early as possible to ensure that they do you true honour.”

“Like dogs,” comes a languid voice from the chair. They both twist or lean respectively to stare at de Cinq-Mars.

“My Lord?” murmurs Treville, leashing his temper one-handed.

“Hunting dogs,” he expands with a wave of a pale hand. “The best are bred to it, trained from puppies. Only the most exceptional hound can be brought in fully-grown, untrained, to a decent hunting pack and be expected to hold its own.”

Treville admits to himself two things: that he is genuinely taken aback, and that he never expected to get help from this quarter, of all places. He spares a moment of wonder that this translucent creature has ever ridden to hunt, and manages to school his expression as the King swings back to him.

“You present a good case,” he says, and one thing Treville will always say for Louis is that – mercurial though he may be – he will offer praise when concession is due. “Both of you. Fine, well,” he turns to sit back down with his favourite, “send me the numbers again, Minister,” he waves, carelessly, “and I’ll sign off what you need. That is,” he adds with a hard, sparking look, “if you’re still my Minister for War?”

He inclines his head. “I am Your Majesty’s to command,” and turns away, his mind sprinting forward to his office where copies of his original request are filed. “Always keep at least a couple of copies,” Madame d’Artagnan had advised, “he’ll lose or dispose of at least one of them before he agrees to anything.”

Smiling grimly to himself, he spares a wink for the servant waiting outside and surges onward.

**Author's Note:**

> #### Text of Louis’s note to Treville:
> 
> Treville,
> 
> For the last time – no. Stop asking.
> 
> Louis
> 
> #### Some Historical/ Handwriting-Related Notes
> 
>   1. That’s Louis’s actual signature (well, the signature of one of his secretaries, and pretty similar to one he produced when he was about 15 years younger), gussied up a bit. You can find it [here](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Signatures_of_Louis_XIII_of_France). I chose that because it was the clearest, and the easiest for me to produce  
> 
>   2. Yes, the "handwriting" I’ve chosen there for the body of the note is different from the signature. Two parts to this: a) I figured it all too possible that he got someone else to write this for him; b) I’m starting to run out of suitable fonts. Any suggestions along those lines will be gladly greeted. (Believe me: I spent _far_ too long on matching that as it is. )  
> 
>   3. [Henri Coiffier de Ruzé, Marquis de Cinq-Mars](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Coiffier_de_Ruz%C3%A9,_Marquis_of_Cinq-Mars) was a real person, and a real favourite of the King. Also involved in scurrilous rumours about the King’s apparent [bisexuality](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_XIII_of_France#Sexuality). Yes, he entered the court a couple of years later than this is set, but he was also brought in by Richelieu, who the series creators killed off because Doctor Who, so… so no-one gets to judge me, okay? Heh.  
>   
> 
> 

> 
> In other news: I’m _really_ enjoying this project. Your comments are all incredibly encouraging – THANK YOU!
> 
> **P.S. As some of you know** , I’ve not yet finished watching the third season (I’ve got no further than Death of a Hero) – **no spoilers please!**


End file.
